


hotlines.

by padlockandpastels



Category: Heathers: The Musical - Murphy & O'Keefe
Genre: Other, Possible Trigger Warning??, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Hotline
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-23
Updated: 2017-11-23
Packaged: 2019-02-06 02:23:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,797
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12807579
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/padlockandpastels/pseuds/padlockandpastels
Summary: McNamara calls into her school’s help hotline at the end of Junior year.





	hotlines.

 

 

 

 

  
Heather eyed the crumpled flyer in her hand as she dialed the number. The colors are only black and white, but still manage to be streamed and spotty from that stupid printer in the teacher lounge.

" _Westerburg Teenage Help Hotline!_ " was spiraled at the top and the cheerleader ignored the feeling of vulnerability in her gut. This was stupid. She felt stupid. It was the end of junior year, her reputation racked up by now.

Most popular 'clique' in school. Heather, Heather, and Heather. She shouldn't be caught dead dialing this. Her blue eyes nervously swept to her locked bedroom door, though she shouldn't be worried. Her Dad wouldn't be back for hours.

With a pathetic whimper she sunk against the headrest, holding the cellphone to her ear. Fucking stupid. Calling some 'help hotline' put on by student council for mental health awareness month. Student council. Kids with strained ties and braces. People she'd snicker at towards lunch. It felt like dialing a number could bump her down a dozen pegs in a mere second.

The receiver crackled and McNamara clutched her white pillow on the bed, forgetting to breathe.

"Hello! I'm Veronica, this is the student help hotline. What's up?"

Heather stiffened. The voice isn't familiar. Neither is the name. Some random student. Not enough to affect her or be relevant enough for a Heather to know her name.

Veronica didn't speak for a moment, obviously awaiting a reply. The cheerleader's words suddenly felt lodged in her throat.

"This—this is anonymous, right?" She murmured quietly into the receiver. Her knees drew to her chest, body a bundle of nerves. She felt like she had been being watched.

"Mhm," came the fabricated response. "Totally anonymous. I promise." The words were so oddly stern it almost makes the clique member shiver. She was uncomfortable. "We only tell the police if you're in like, danger danger, ya' know?" Veronica seemed to convey a shrug over the line.

"Right." Heather croaked. "I— " she huffed, squirming in place. "I don't-don't really know how this thing works." She admitted, time rushed and anxious.

"Oh." Veronica seemed to understand and Mac can't help but wonder if she'd heard it before. How many had called? Had any? She didn't know which answer she preferred. No one calling just isolated this awful feeling more. As if whatever had been picking at her mind for the last two months was a personal problem no one else had to deal with. Like she was some weak link, a broken puzzle piece. Her nails dug into the pillows fabric.

If others had called it almost made her more scared. Others meant the fabricated faces she saw in the halls had stories sealed underneath. It made her ill. She knew her smiles were more statue like than genuine, but the fact someone else could be doing that made her wince.

"That's okay." The girl on the other end replied. Her tone was quieter. Patient. Heather frowned. It sounded like Veronica was talking to her like a child. This didn't help validate anything. "Just—tell me your name and maybe start with how your feeling."

The girl's freckled nose crinkled up. It sounded like a cliche therapy session. Like the ones she used to have after her Mom left Sherwood in the eighth grade.

_And how does that make you feel?_

She'd never gave solid answers. Like as if her Mom packing up and leaving was just another part of the schedule. She'd begged her father to drop the sessions before summer began. She'd be murdered if Heather and Heather found out. She'd be a weird laughing stalk. Like those girls who sit in the back of the caf' and cry about how their boyfriend's broke up with them.

Heather McNamara wasn't like that. She dated Kurt Kelly and was head cheerleader and was one of the most popular girls in school.

So why was she calling some help line?

"I'm. . ." No way in hell she'd say a real name. "Tweet—Tweetie." Blue eyes settle on the small yellow bird that sat in a brass cage beside her bed.

"Okay." Veronica knew it was fake, but didn't comment. Heather didn't need her to. "So what's been going on, Tweetie?"

She plucked at a pillow on the pillow.

"I—I don't think I feel good."

"Mentally?"

"I guess?" She muttered. Stupid. Stupid. _Stupid_. "I'm. . .I'm always tired. Not like—actually tired. I like-" her lips felt dry, like she might just croak instead of talk of a sudden.

"It feels numb." She worded suddenly. She pulled out a plastic feather. It fluttered to the bedspread. Heather felt pinned and uncomfortable. "Like I'm sinking or something." She breathed.

A beat. She could almost hear a clock tick in whatever room the other is in. She hated this.

"Do you know any root? Why. . . Why do you feel that way, you think?"

"I don't know." Her tone brushed on a squeak. "I—it's like a tightrope. I might not get the head member of my sports team because my grades keep slipping." She muttered, swapping cheer with sports. She'd like some goddamn poster icon. Veronica would know who she is if she doesn't already.

"I'm—I'm not good at math or whatever. I already failed biology. I'm not very smart." It's not up for debate. The end of the line doesn't argue. She's listening. "I should study, but I'm always going to parties with my friend and. . .and my boyfriend. I don't think he likes me anymore. I saw him making out with another girl last weekend." The blonde got out.

Her relationship with Kurt Kelly was an odd one. Off and on and more forced in every way. As if she needed him because, well, didn't everyone in her shoes need a boyfriend? She didn't really like him. He was honestly a jerk. Wanting her more as a weekend hookup.

They'd never even been on a date.

But the thought of breaking up seemed to make that tightrope wire ripple. Reputation.

"So I feel like I gotta go to these parties so I can keep up with him and keep my friends happy or they'll get mad." She huffed. Another feather was yanked.  "I swear this is relevant."

"It's okay. Keep talking. That's what I'm here for."

"Everything feels like it's falling apart. Like. . .like I don't even feel anything I'm doing anymore?" She babbled. "Like it's a cycle. Fake. . . Fake smiles and parties and boyfriends—" her voice cracked and the heat of embarrassment sprung to her cheeks.

Her voice dropped, like a shaky whisper she's scared for people to hear. She is scared for people to hear.

"It didn't—didn't used to be like that. I liked everything I was doing. I don't know what's going on. I'm scared to do the wrong thing, like that stupid tightropes gonna snap and I'm just gonna-"

Her words were breathy. She pulled out another pillow and the prickles tug into her thumb.

" _die_." She finished.

The aid hung thick for a moment as if both were scared to make a first move.

"Highschool is scary, Tweetie. Popularity seems like everything. It seems so long and endless, but it doesn't last fore—"

"Are you reading right now?"

"W—what?"

"Like a instruction sheet or something. Like a speech."

"I—"

"Stop it." A frown tugged at her lipstick stained lips. ". . .please."

"What would you like me to do?" Theres a calmness in her voice Heather wished she had.

"Lis. . .listen?" She sounded frustrated. Confused. A million things at once.

"Okay." Veronica breathed. "I'm gonna listen. Talk whenever you need to, alright?"

The unfamiliar voice is soothing and she squeezed her eyes shut. Like someone holding her. She wished someone could just hold her.

"I'm. . .I'm not good enough, I think." Feather. "I'm not good enough for cheer, or my grades, or-or my Dad. For anyone, ever—" her throat burned that way it does when you feel tears rising.

Crap.

"I'm not good enough for this stupid life." It's a confessed hiss.

"Are you okay?"

Her eyebrows knit together, unsure. "I don't think I am," It's a whimper, tears pinpointing the orders of her eyes.

"Hey, listen. I'm. . .I'm gonna give you the list of suicide hotlin—"

"No." Are her choked words, head snapping up. A feather slipped to her fingers. Her thumb stung with a cut. "I don't-I don't—I'm _not like that._ "

"It might help just give a call—"

"I'm not gonna kill myself." Her heartbeat drummed in her ears. Did Veronica think she was some suicidal freak? This hadn't done anything

"Heather, I didn't say-" the words halt suddenly. Both girls halt in their tracks. Breathing was the only thing heard.

Heather.

"Wait—crap, I didn't-wait a second—"

Heather had already hung up before she could scrape at saving the conversation.

The cellphone dropped when her trembling fingertips gave way. Confused and scared tears smeared her vision and a choked sob escaped her lips. Stupid.

•

No one talks on Monday. Whoever Veronica is hasn't said anything. That doesn't stop her eyes from anxiously scanning the cafeteria all week looking for a face she doesn't even know.

Days tick to weeks to months. The hotline closed at the end of May. Her mysterious voice never told. Her silent prayer at a kept and chipping reputation lived another day.

•

Summer passed by to senior year. September 1st, a bold new start the cheerleader decided. She looks a little a little different. There's an extra skip in her step, painted smile on her freckled features. It's not real, but it helped to make it feel like it was.

It was almost third period when the three of them are in the bathroom, applying lipstick in the mirror. Duke had staggered out of the stall, wiping at her lips. McNamara winced and looked away.

Ms. Fleming had entered moments later with stern threats of detention. Heather's heart almost flattered. Detention on the first day?

There'd been an awkward scuffle from behind, a lanky brunette in a patch-knit scarf stumbled around the clique, forged hall pass in tanned hand.

McNamara blinked. Who was she? Heather didn't know her, not surprising, the fashion chaos of teen didn't have as more talent with her handwriting as she did with picking out clothes. Blindly it seemed. She almost winced.

She'd eyed her curiously and confused. The bluebird of a student had randomly appeared out of the dark. Her voice struck a familiar tone she couldn't pinpoint. Lab assistant? Yearbook? Cheer member relative?

"Who are you?" The queen bee sneered, sharp gaze cutting into the brunette.

She seemed to hide under her layered scarf, open hand shooting forward for a shake. The girl gave a wiry smile. "I'm Veronica. Veronica Sawyer."

**Author's Note:**

> happy thanksgiving xoxo


End file.
